A Companion
by AlumnusSLB
Summary: An American teenager visits Harry at Privet Lane


It was a perfectly lovely day on Privet drive. The Sun was shining, birds were singing, flowers were in full bloom and Mrs. Wickensham was hard at work trimming each blade of grass to a uniform half inch length. Mind you, it was the verge, between the sidewalk and the road where the grass was one half inch. Within her walled in yard the blades were three quarters of an inch, to better complement the daisies and other wildflowers standing to attention in the plot starting exactly 10 feet back from the front gate. 

As Mrs. Wickensham was by far the most catch-as-catch-can resident of Privet Drive, perfectly scandalous in her open compost heap, it is easy to see why even a splendid Summer day would be perfectly horrid for a young wizard. Over in the garden of Number 4 Privet Drive Harry Potter, hair even more unkempt than usual due to having just dodged am errant model airplane piloted by his porky cousin Dudley. Dudley hadn't intended to buzz Harry, as his experiences with friends of Harry over the last few years had lead him to stay clear. Harry could hardly tell the difference between the shade of purple Dudley turned and the violets planted along the wall outlining the yard after coming around the corner of the house and seeing Harry on the ground and plan stuck in the turf along side him.

"I won't say anything to Mother about you breaking my plane," muttered Dudley, the closest he would ever come to an apology to Harry. Grabbing the handful of pieces which yesterday was a present for Dudley's passing marks at Smitings, Dudley careened back out of sight, bringing a smile to Harry's face as he remembered when Dudley was truly porcine.

The quick grin just as quickly dissipated as Harry thought of Hagrid, the giantish groundskeeper and erstwhile instructor at Hogwarts. During the Summer Harry tried to avoid thinking of his wizarding friends, such as Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger, with whom he had spent many an afternoon in Hagrid's cabin, pretending to eat the impenetrable rock biscuits Hagrid was so fond of serving for tea. The same reflexes which kept the miniature propeller from adding another scar to Harry's head, had helped him become Seeker for the Gryffendor Quidditch team, the youngest seeker in 100 years. Thinking about Quidditch, with his Firebolt locked up in his school trunk and forbidden to fly until back at school, was too much for Harry to think about. The One Who Lived rolled over and up, his mind racing to devise a distraction. "Perhaps a lorry will turn down Privet accidently, have to back up and sound its reversing claxon. Mrs. Figg will surely come out at fuss at the poor man."

Harry walked over to the low stone wall marking the front of Number 4 Privet Drive. No wayward lorries, no sight of the 16 year-old Drew girl in the yard of Number 15 Privet Drive, certainly no owls, or large dogs, post boxes jumping away from errant buses, and certainly not anyone dressed in the robes he missed so dearly. Nothing but the same Privet Drive, with one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen lamp posts.

As he counted the last of the lamp posts, down at the open end of the street, he noticed two oddly dressed men, one of them holding a piece of paper flat in one hand, his other hand suspended half a foot above the paper.

As they came closer, it was clear that the clothes were Muggle enough, but just not normal for England. Harry could also see that the pair were not two men, but rather an older man, the one with the paper and what now seemed to Harry to be a pendulum of some sort, and a very tall teen, probably not much older than Harry if at all. The boy kept back a step from the man, smiling as the man focused intently on the paper and swinging pendulum. 

Harry hopped up to a seat on the wall, to look at these unprecedented visitors to Privet Drive. The man hesitated for a moment as he passed Mrs. Wickensham, starting to strike up a conversation. The boy discreetly bumped into the man, whispered a word or two, and they continued on. The look of disappointment on the man's face vanished as his concentration on the paper and pendulum resumed. The two Americans, as Harry guessed from the clothes and the barely audible greetings extended to Mrs. Wickensham, continued down the street, up to the gate to gate to Number 4 Privet Drive.

"This is amazing, Howard! The implications of a house being here, my goodness. Twenty years ago the intersection of the lines was half again across the country centered on druidic ruins. I have just got to speak with the owners.."

"Why don't you check with the kid who lives here, Dad, to see if anyone is home. Remember, don't stay long. We have to catch that train up North to meet up with Dr. Carter for the hiking trip. I mean trekking, or tenting our whatever they call it here.."

"You're right. Excuse me, are your parents home?" the man asked Harry.

Harry flinched and amidst the wave of longing failed to notice that the boy had flinched as well.

Biting his lip, Harry responded, "Well, this is my Aunt and Uncle's house. They are both here now. Excuse, me but what are those things in your hands and why did you stop here?"

"I am a dowser. This is a map of this section of England and the pendulum is a tool I use to detect energy currents, called Lei Lines. It just so happens that the two biggest Lei Lines in England intersect right here at your house. What is so odd, and what I want to talk to your Aunt and Uncle about, is that the Lei Lines were very different twenty years ago. When I started dowsing, before I married and had children, I made the same kind of map and followed it to its intersection. On that trip to England I had to ask permission from farmers to dodge cow patties three hundred miles from here and stumbled upon a mound that I am sure is the ruins of a Druid temple. Changes like this just don't happen. This is a very special location."

Harry thought that he would much rather live with the farmers hundreds of miles a way, but politely invited the man and boy up to the house. 

The boy interjected, "You go on, Dad. If I go in with you, my fidgeting will keep you from enjoying yourself. We are going to be squeezed in the train for the rest of the day, so I'd like to just stay out and stretch my legs. Maybe have a little cultural exchange."

The man agreed and walked up to the front door, striking the door knocker. Harry's giraffe necked Aunt answered the door. After a brief exchange, and a glare at Harry, she invited the man in.

"My Dad loves to talk to people and somehow he gets them to talk to him. It drives my family and me crazy sometimes. He is a minister, but he should have been a politician, what with how he likes to talk to people and figure out he is connected with them ten ways over. In five minutes he will probably find out that we are related or that a former parishioner of his went to school with your Aunt. Oh, when I said minister, you thought I meant politician, so that didn't make a lot of sense. You know what they say, England and the United States, two countries divided by a common language."

The boy reached out a hand to shake with Harry. "My name is Howard Phillips. Nice to meet you. You say bonnet, we say trunk, you say crisps, we say potato chips, you say Muggles, we say Babbits."

As the American said Muggles, he grabbed Harry's hand. Harry felt an odd sensation, a warm vibration in his hand. He started to pull away, but Howard held on.

"Do you know where the word Muggle came from, Harry? I'm not sure about Babbit, but I like to say that it stands for Blind As Bats, Believing In Technology. Don't pull away, Harry. When you do, your won't remember what I said, but likely won't let me touch you again. I am not a bad guy. I'm like you, a wizard in training, except that I don't get to go to a school like you do. I am not even a normal American wizard, who gets to do magic at home, play with the family sprites or fly a broom out in the open. I'm one of the Hidden."

"What do you mean hidden?" Harry said much more slowly than he expected and not nearly as alarmed as he thought he should be. "If you are casting a spell on me, the Ministry of Magic will be here in a flash. I get blamed for magic around here that isn't even mine." 

"Technically, this isn't magic. I am wearing a ring which is just the right combination of the iron, silver, and other metals to interfere with a Wizard's aura, for the lack of a better word. The Ministry is clueless about what is going on. Knowing how to make rings and other things like the ring is how we can be hidden. As a matter of fact there are three pillars to being Hidden."

Howard paused, and with his free left hand brushed light brown hair away from his glasses. Even in his dulled state, Harry recognized the change that comes over a student about to recite his lessons.

"The first step was to defend the mind. 

"The second step was to counter magic without magic.

"The third step was to contain the practice of magic.

"The first one is similar to being able to resist the Imperius curse, but not really. The trick is to make it seem like your mind is a Muggle or Babbit mind, let the Wizards and Witches think that the memory spells have worked. It's too complicated to say much more, but one of the keys is growing up saying 'Abra Cadabra' all the time."

Harry jumped back, almost slipping from Howard's grip.

"Yikes, sorry. Every Unhidden Wizard freaks out when he hears that. Way too close to the killing curse. Of course, that's why it is important. That and certain nursery rhymes we have in America. Mother Goose was one of us. You ever come to Boston, where I'm from, I'll take you to see her grave."

Howard continued "Metals like in the ring, certain weaves of fabric, even a few foods, mess up magic like you wouldn't believe. In my wallet, I have a sheet that looks like a lens cleaner for my glasses which would make your wand completely useless if I rubbed them together. Short-term memory loss is what we use the most, but it is also one of the mildest anti-magic tricks up the old sleeve."

"Of course, these things are neat and can keep other magic folk from interrogating you in person, but none of that keeps actual magic from sending out its vibes, or whatever it does. There isn't much point to being Hidden, if you can't ever do magic, can't teach it, can't practice it. Might as well be a Babbit. It was actually a British wizard who married a muggle woman and came over to America on the Mayflower that came up with the trick. I am not even sure how it works, I just know that I have to do all my magic stuff inside in a few particular rooms, in a few particular buildings. Some days I can't even do it there. Shoot, you think you have it bad during the Summer here? At least at Hogwarts you can do magic for most of the year. I did one lousy spell last year out in the open, to keep a nasty Loup Garou from munching on a hiker, and I had to end my vacation early to get away from the DOB, our version of your Ministry of Magic, who tried to figure out where the magic came from.

"Why did you come here? Why are you telling me all this, if I am just going to forget it all?" Harry asked.

"Well, I'm in England for a test of sorts. Hogwarts doesn't have the only forbidden forest. My Dad, who technically is a Babbit and doesn't know I'm magic, but does that dowsing stuff, and my Hidden teacher, Randy Carter, are going camping where I should get tested by a lot more than a renegade canuck werewolf. We generally come over here for practical tests, since you have the most sophisticated wizards and the roughest creatures.

"My Dad really did find the difference in the Lei Lines and insisted on coming here to see what it was. Mr. Carter says the Lines are part of what protects you from Voldemort when you are here. The Lei Lines are part of a magic that is so old that lots of Babbits can detect it, but most Wizards have forgotten all about. But my Dad is not the only reason."

"Harry, the Hidden don't get involved with the wizards and wizard problems. The last time Voldemort came to power, there were all sorts of debates over what should be done. When you drove him away as a baby, it got us off the hook.

"But Harry." and Howard's face grew severe,"we came to a conclusion. We were wrong by not being involved. Never again. Never again we will allow such a monster to hurt so many. Being Hidden is very serious for us, but no one will be safe, anywhere, if Voldemort has his way. 

"I am here to make a connection. You won't remember that I am a wizard, you won't remember that we can do things against Voldemort that no other wizards can do, but you will remember something. You will remember an interesting Muggle from Boston. You'll have a person to write Muggle letters, talking about the fight against Voldemort in words you don't think I'll understand.

With that, Howard finally released Harry's hand. 

Harry staggered for a moment.

At that moment, Howard's father was being shooed out the door by Aunt Petunia. Clearly she didn't take to unusual Muggles any more than to a perfectly friendly wizard or witch.

"Dad, we had better head on back to the train station," said Howard as he slid up next to his Father and gently grabbed his arm, directing him out the gate and back onto the Privet Lane sidewalk.

"Well, Harry, it was nice to meet you. I hope you have a great Summer. Here is my address back in Boston if you want to write me a letter."

Howard handed a slip of paper to Harry with his left hand, and together the two Americans turned back down the lane and sauntered off, with Howard's father doing most of the talking.

Harry looked at them leave with a pang, jealous even that he never had such an ordinary experience with his father. 

At the same time, Harry felt glad, for a reason he couldn't quite pin down, that Howard Phillips and father had stopped by. Harry didn't think that Howard and he had spoken for more than a moment, but it seemed like the two boys had made a connection.

"I wonder how you use regular Post from Hogwarts?" Harry wondered and then turned back into the garden of 4 Privet Lane, feeling not quite as alone as he did before.


End file.
